soft hauntings
by closingdoors
Summary: Rizzles amnesia AU. 'The memories are nothing but fleeting feelings. Words stuck on the tip of her tongue. Sometimes there are bright reds. Warm oranges. A soft smile through the haze. Mostly, it is all just empty.'
1. Chapter 1

it's strange all the things you forget about  
when you can't find the scars to prove they happened  
anymore  
 **\- small ghost haunts her own apartment, Trista Mateer**

* * *

 _Because every fic writer must write at least one amnesia au in their lifetime. Enjoy... or cry, I have tissues to offer you for when we hit the rough moments._

* * *

 **Chapter One:**

* * *

When she first opens her eyes, the world around her is blurry.

It is like being born. A newborn with a lack of sight and therefore immediate dependence on her other senses. Her palms flatten against the bed. The sheets are starchy to her touch; stiff. Her nose twitches and burns at the harsh scent of chemicals. Something beeps beside her, too loud against the shell of her ears. She blinks again and in her mind she sees a building. She thinks distantly that she must know the name of it, that she must know where she is. It is in this moment that she realises she doesn't know her name. Shouldn't she have a name?

She sits up slowly. There is a tightness in her chest that refuses to uncoil and when she moves her hand to press against it she discovers an IV attached to the back of her hand, her fingers pressing against a robe and bandages underneath, wrapped around her ribs. Is it this that makes it hard to breathe, this physical pressure tightening around her lungs, or is it the fact that she does not know her own name? Of course she should have a name. If she lets her fingers drift down her torso she can name her major organs. Her heart. Her lungs. Her kidneys. If the things keeping her alive have names, why doesn't she?

Blinking away the fuzziness, she looks around the room. The word she had been missing earlier slips into her mind. Hospital. She's in a hospital. She is connected to a monitor which records her heart rate. She glances at the screen and finds that it is fine. She knows that her heart rate is fine. She does not know her name. So she looks away from the screen, to her hands, seeking a story, an explanation. The skin is blemish free, a little loose maybe - she's not so young. Biting her lower lip, she reaches up, drifts her hand across her nose, her round cheeks, the sharp line of her mouth and sudden jut of her jaw. Mapping out her face. She feels soft, straight hair beneath her finger tips, glances down to find that she is blonde and that it is almost to her waist. There is a moment when she is trying to figure out if this feels right or not. And then she realises she is not alone in the room.

To her left, a woman snores softly in her sleep, cheek pressed against her fist and long legs tucked into her chest. The woman mutters something incoherent, shifts, and curls spill over her shoulders, wonderful and wild. Her face is sharp even in sleep, somewhat intimidating, but then she jerks awake as her arm slips off of the chair and she almost falls to the floor.

She does not know her name but she learns the sound of her own laughter.

The woman beside her is on her feet immediately, one hand gripping the railing of her hospital bed and the other one reaching for her cheek. Her fingers are long and bony and unfamiliar. They settle just right against her skin.

"Maur," the woman gasps, but perhaps that is not quite the word. The woman is already beginning to choke on her own tears. "You woke up."

Maur. She tests the name in her own head and tries to attach it to herself. It feels incomplete.

"I - what?"

She blinks a few times, stunned by her own voice. She is well spoken. Voice rather high compared to the low tone of the woman beside her. The woman's fingers flex against her cheek and she finds herself pulling away from them. She does not know her name. She doesn't want this. She wants her name.

"You've been out for so long, babe. You scared the crap outta me," the woman says, and her face is blotchy from crying. Her hands reach out again, pressing against her shoulder. "You don't remember the accident?"

"I don't." _I don't remember anything at all_ , she thinks.

The woman wipes her cheeks with her free hand. The movement raises the blazer she is wearing and reveals a detective's shield. Is she in some sort of trouble?

"You were driving to the precinct. We didn't travel together that day because it was my morning off. We were gonna meet for lunch at that French bistro you liked... but you didn't get to the precinct. Some drunk asshole skipped a red and hit you head on. Doctors said the force of the impact you had with the air bag broke three of your ribs. You were conscious on scene. You... you'd already slipped into a coma by the time I managed to get here."

The woman looks away for a moment, as if she is ashamed by this. Maur - is that her own name? - finds herself wondering what on earth she would be driving to a precinct for. Perhaps she's a CI. Or maybe even in witness protection. Maybe she's vital to a case; that would explain why the detective would be checking in on her. Worried for her. She stares long and hard at her, at her curls, the dark pool of her eyes, the long and bony fingers connected to scarred hands. Tries to place her somewhere. In a precinct. In a French bistro. In the waiting room of the hospital. Has to rub her own hands against her temples when no image comes flooding forth and shakes off the detective's hand against her shoulder.

"Maur?"

"How long have I been out?"

The detective frowns. "Four weeks."

She nods. "Oh."

It is nothing grand. Four weeks. A month. The time someone spends reading a book; debating on getting a new haircut; dating someone they don't really care for. She has been asleep for all of four weeks but nothing before that exists. No smells. No sounds. No memories whatsoever. No loved ones – but she must have parents, surely. Shouldn't they be here? Not a detective who stares at her with too much desperation. Not a detective who tries to hold her hand.

"Don't," she says sharply, pulling her hand away, and for a moment the detective looks surprised.

"I have your stuff," the detective says quickly, and she heads across the room, movements jerky. There is a small suitcase sat beside the door to her room and the detective pulls it over, eyes wide. "I bought some clothes because I know you complain about the hospital gowns. I don't know if they'll let you wear them. And I bought you a bunch of books and your iPad if you want to watch those documentaries on Netflix you like. And - and I had your ring cleaned. It was... it was covered in your blood, Maur, but they got it all out."

"My ring," she repeats. Hollow.

But the detective misinterprets this for some kind of request. She nods too many times and rifles through the case to pull out a clear plastic bag. Passes it to her and watches her face carefully as she tips it free and allows it to land in the palm of her hand.

So she's married. She doesn't know her own name, her age; she cannot remember her parents, not even the faintest trace of love for them. But she is married. Someone out there knows her name and her parents and is probably worried about her despite the fact she does not know them. She lets her fingers close around the silver band, testing its cool temperature, the weight of it against her skin. The detective is still watching her carefully but she finds she is desperate to look anywhere but at her eyes. The eyes that expect too much. She glances at the detective's hand instead and spots a similar wedding band on her ring finger too.

"We match," she blurts out. What she really wants to ask is _who am I?_

The detective gives her an uncertain, lopsided grin. "Yeah, Maura. We match."

Maura. Not Maur. That feels complete.

Maura uncurls her fingers, slips the wedding band onto her ring finger. It's a perfect fit, of course. And there is a simple, unquestionable attachment to this ring sitting in her mind already. It sifts forwards and she knows already that she will not take this ring off. That she loves someone. It is the only real thing Maura knows about herself.

"Why are you here?"

The detective reaches out for her. "Maur?"

"Please don't touch me," she snaps. The hands retreat. "I don't like being held."

"This isn't funny, babe," the detective says. "C'mon I know - I know I've pulled pranks before but this isn't funny."

"I'm not playing a prank, detective," Maura insists. "I would like to know why a detective is tending to me instead of a doctor. And why my parents aren't here - along with whoever my spouse is."

She wiggles her ring finger and the detective lets out a laugh that is not quite a bark but isn't quite a sob either. Her face turns dark, angry, and Maura thinks that this suits her easily; the brooding features that now stare down at her make more sense. This is what her image of a detective is. Not a woman who cries and tries to hold her.

"This isn't funny," the woman repeats again, but the words are practically a growl now. "You damn well know this isn't funny to me, Maura."

"How do you know my name if I don't?"

The detective freezes.

"What?"

Maura shrugs slightly, staring down at her lap. "I have... no recollection of my life priory to the accident. Or, really, I have no memory of anything at all. You said my name is Maura, didn't you? How do you know me?"

She looks back up, expecting an answer. But the detective's face is distorted now, not in anger, and certainly not in the relief she had expressed earlier. It is something anguished and pained, something that has her eyes wide even as they fill with tears. The woman runs a hand through her hair as she holds the left one out, not touching Maura this time. Her hand is trembling.

"We match."

Maura has to strain to hear her, but once she does she feels her stomach flip. Stares at their matching rings for a moment before looking back up at the detective. Oh.

"I'm married to a woman?"

The moment the words leave her, she knows there is no doubt of that. It is no longer a question but a statement. Yes. Of course she is married to a woman. This is the second real thing she learns about herself.

The detective laughs bitterly, jerking her own hand away.

"Please tell me you're joking. Please, Maura. I won't - I won't ever presume a reddish brown stain is blood ever again if you just tell me you've suddenly developed a seriously dark sense of humour."

"Oh..." She tries to search for the detective's - her wife's - name. She cannot find it. "I..."

Her speechlessness speaks volumes, apparently. The detective spins away, quick, almost blurring. One hand cradles her forehead as the other settles on her hip.

Maura studies her curiously. She is… married to this woman. She doesn't even know her name. The detective doesn't feel like her type, either. Sure, she's not exactly sure what her type is, but an angry, brash detective does not sit right with her. However, the woman _is_ gorgeous. Even in her anger now, her anguish – the anguish she herself has caused her – it makes her jaw sharper, her whole face more dangerous and terrifying and some part of her understands that she could fall into that. This woman who seems intimidating… this woman who has been crying over her.

She looks at the chair that is now empty beside her bed. Pictures that long body curled up awkwardly between its arms, limbs cramped and the wood of the chair digging into her hip, her ribs, discomfort settling there. And still, the detective had stayed.

"What is your name?"

The words seem to jolt the detective out of her reverie. Her head snaps up, body twisting back towards Maura.

"Jane," she says, and Maura is surprised at how small her voice is. How defeated. "Jane Rizzoli."

Maura nods. "Jane."

She is simply testing the name in her mouth. It is the only other name she knows now.

Jane stares at her, a little too expectant once again.

"Is my surname Rizzoli too?"

Jane shakes her head. "You're Isles. Maura Isles. We considered the whole… double barrel surname thing but… it wasn't us, I guess."

Maura Isles. She smiles to herself as her fingers brush against her hospital bracelet and find the name staring up at her. Of course. How had she forgotten she could've simply looked there?

* * *

A nurse had entered a few moments after, surprised to find her awake and lucid. Her doctor had been fetched and too soon she had been subjected to test after test on her memory. First just questions. What is the date? _I don't know._ Do you know what year it is? _I don't know._ Do you know your name? _It's on my hospital bracelet._ Do you know your occupation? _No._ Do you know the detective here? _She is my wife._ You remember her? _No. She told me. I believe her._

Then it is a CT scan. Blood tests. Jane offers to go with her to the former but Maura insists that she stay behind. She pretends not to notice the way the detective's face falls. Perhaps she is being unfair to her. The woman wants nothing more than to help her, she supposes, out of love; they have a history, despite the fact that she does not remember it. But she does not feel any obligation towards the woman. It is not her fault she does not remember. She doesn't have to force herself to be a wife to a woman she does not know. She doesn't have to force herself to be a woman she doesn't remember being. Does she?

By the time she is returned to her room to rest and wait for the results, the sun is beginning to set. Jane is stood by the window as Maura is wheeled in, her figure illuminated by the yellow-orange hues of dusk that settle in her wild hair. She does not turn away from the glass until the nurse has helped Maura back into her bed and left the room.

She stares down at Maura and Maura stares back. The drugs she had been given earlier are beginning to take affect, already the edges of her vision are blurry, her limbs heavy. For a moment she almost asks the detective to leave. It does not feel right to have another person she does not know in the room with her as she sleeps.

But she catches the affection in Jane's gaze. The way her hand reaches out for her before remembering the way Maura had rejected her earlier, retracting back into her pocket. It makes her skin warm, even if accepting this woman's love for just one moment is selfish of her. She cannot offer any in return.

"Thank you, Jane."

She reaches out and brushes her fingers against Jane's.

She is asleep before she can feel Jane's catch hers and squeeze.

* * *

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**soft hauntings**

* * *

 _Thank you all so much for your support on this fic! I'm not gonna lie, I was slightly worried you guys wouldn't want to read anything of mine that wasn't between your ribs. I am so relieved that is not the case._

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

The next morning, she wakes to find that Jane is still there. She leaves only to visit the bathroom and buy herself a coffee. Maura doesn't see the detective eat anything else and, although she thinks it is an unhealthy habit for Jane to keep, she doesn't comment on it.

"Do I like coffee?" she asks when Jane is on her third coffee that day.

Jane stares at her, the cup paused before her lips. "Yeah, you do. Fancy crap. Not instant, like me."

It is the second day of her life that she remembers. She knows her name; that she is married; that her wife is a detective who she can't remember because of a car crash.

Now she knows that she likes coffee.

* * *

Retrograde amnesia.

Her doctor – Doctor Kingston – tells her this in a monotone voice. Maura accepts this quietly, tucking her hair behind her ears and nodding, more distracted by how her hair is beginning to feel greasy than anything. Of course she has amnesia. This isn't a shock. All she wants to know is when she can leave, if her ribs have healed yet, where it is she will be going home to. Does she have a home to go to?

However, the news has Jane rising from her seat, her thumbs rubbing against her scarred hands. She paces and Doctor Kingston watches her lazily. Maura looks between them both. Sees pieces of herself in them before realizing she does not know who she is, she is simply yearning for traits.

"Can't you fix it? Get her memories back?" Jane demands.

Indignation flushes in Maura's chest. Why does the detective insist on speaking of her as though she isn't right here?

Doctor Kingston shakes his head slowly. "Unfortunately, we have no way of controlling when or if her memories will return. For some people it is only a matter of weeks, some only recover a fraction of their memories in decades."

"If? What do you mean _if?_ She'll get them back eventually, right?"

Jane has gone pale, eyes wide. Her eyes slide from Doctor Kingston to Maura, who shifts a little under he gaze. Of course, Jane feels that she has been robbed of her life, her wife. Maura understands why this hurts her; why it scares her. Truthfully, Maura would like her memories back too, but not for the sake of her marriage or the happiness of the woman standing by her. She is already tired of being forty-three years old (or, at least, that's what her chart says) and not knowing whether she likes red wine or white; sugar or salted popcorn; soda or lemonade. Small details that people – Jane included – take for granted. Small details that in any other situation she would probably take for granted, too, but right now Maura doesn't even know a handful of facts about herself. Who is she?

Is she still the woman that existed before the accident?

Doctor Kingston sighs. "There is a chance that Mrs Isles may not recover her memories completely, if at all. Not every case is completely the same; the brain is a tremendously complex organ."

How strange. To think of it that way – that some other version of herself may have flittered off into the dark, her light extinguished. All of her small habits, likes and dislikes, her memories – even those that are just smells, colours from her childhood, the feel of a sweater she might have owned once – are all gone. What would that previous version of herself have thought about this, or is she thinking exactly as she would have before? To think of herself and a woman she cannot remember being as one person makes her ache, a longing tightening in her chest. She is forty-three years old and she doesn't know who she is.

"But – what if I tell her stuff? You know, explain everything, show her pictures? Can't that help?"

Her Doctor nods slowly, and Maura studies the way hope flickers behind Jane's eyes. Is that not strange too – that she is still Maura Isles, regardless of how she is now and how she was then, but already her wife is rejecting this version of her, trying to fix her? As if she is a puzzle with a few pieces misplaced. It doesn't settle well with her. But why should she care what this woman thinks of her, this woman she does not know?

"Sometimes, pictures can help trigger the memories, even if they are only few," Doctor Kingston says. "But it is best not to try and overload her brain right now. The best way is to allow them to come back naturally."

Jane turns away, hands on her hips as she stares at the ground. Doctor Kingston turns back to Maura and explains that they'll discharge her next week. Her ribs will be fully healed by then and – as long as she takes it easy – she will be okay. Maura tries not to scoff at that. _Take it easy._ She doesn't know who she is. She doesn't know where she lives. What part of leaving this hospital room and going back to people expecting her to be a woman she's forgotten is easy? All she wants to do is lay down and pull the covers over her head, lay there in the darkness for a while, acquaint herself with her own mind instead of being filled with questions.

When Doctor Kingston leaves them, Jane sighs heavily, dropping down into the chair beside Maura's bed. Her shoulders hunch and she rests her elbows on her knees, her face hidden by the mane of her that falls over her shoulders and curls around her cheeks.

"How long have we been married?"

"Two years and seven months," Jane says without looking up. Quick. Easy. She knows the date like the back of her hand and this makes Maura's mouth dry.

"And – my parents? They're around?"

Jane takes a long, deep breath before pushing her hair back.

"Yeah. Constance and Arthur Isles. They've been worried about you, but they're away in Europe. You also…"

"I also what?"

Jane winces. "Constance and Arthur are your adoptive parents. They raised you. You used to be in contact with your biological mother and half-sister… it's been a while since you spoke, though. You didn't bother inviting them to the wedding."

"I see," Maura says quietly. "What about my biological father?"

"He's uh…" Jane pauses before she laughs bitterly. "He's in prison."

"Oh."

Maura finds that she doesn't want to know more than this. Maybe tomorrow, she will want to know why. Maybe she'll never want to know about this man – perhaps that is the one advantage of her situation. She can cast off those that she does not want to know by never learning about them. Not with Jane, though. She looks at the Detective and sees a stubborn, sharp woman; she may not be pleased with the situation, she may sit too stiffly around her and stare at Maura as though she is going to announce that this is all a terrible joke, but she does not seem like the kind of woman that quits easily.

It occurs to her suddenly that this woman has seen her naked. She has seen every inch of her skin and Maura has no idea what it is she looks like.

Jane rubs her scarred hands over her eyes and Maura finds herself resenting her for it. For her memories, for her knowledge. For ever marrying her and giving her this obligation. It's unfair. It is an injustice, so she looks away from Jane when she announces that she'll call Constance and Arthur to update them on the situation. Jane knows her parents and she does not. Jane knows her body and she does not.

Before she goes to sleep that night, Jane asleep in the chair beside her, she repeats the same five words over and over in her mind.

 _My name is Maura Isles._

* * *

During the week wait for Maura to be discharged, Jane only appears for a handful of moments and she doesn't attempt to make conversation. She simply watches her, as if she is simply checking that Maura is still alive, still awake, that she is not going to slip back into a coma and away from her again. _I have already slipped away from you,_ Maura wants to say. _I am not your wife._

She stays silent and lets the detective hover by her before leaving without a word.

* * *

On the day that she is due to be discharged, Maura finally takes the chance to see what she looks like. She moves to the bathroom to change into some of the clothes Jane had originally brought for her: a grey sweater which looked warm and suitable for the winter weather, a pair of simple black slim leg trousers, with a coral pink blazer pulled on top. As she pulls the clothing over her skin, she stares at the freckles she finds, at the light almost hidden moles, the small scar on her stomach, learning herself. Runs her hands over the fabric and wonders if this is who she was before, if this is an outfit she would've chosen for herself. If she wears these clothes, does it make her the same?

Before she leaves the bathroom, she turns to face the mirror for the first time.

"Oh."

Without thinking, she steps closer, eyes travelling rapidly, greedily ingesting this image. She looks far different to what she had imagined. A rounder face, lighter eyes, fuller cheeks. She looks… soft.

Jane's opposite.

There's a knock on the door. "You ready?"

Maura takes a small step back from the mirror at the sound of Jane's voice. Staring at herself.

"One more minute," she calls back before taking a deep breath.

Then, to her own reflection, quietly, "hello."

In the mirror, the woman's eyes fill with tears.

* * *

Jane stays silent on their drive back home, letting the radio fill the space between them. She is all sharp angles and brooding lines as she drives, knuckles white as she grips the wheel. Maura folds, unfolds, and refolds a slip of paper in her hand. At her request, Jane had written down their full address two days ago, and Maura has been obsessed with it ever since. _Boston. Massachusetts._ The words make sense in her head. She knows the difference between a city and a state; if she were put to the test she thinks she could name all fifty states. However, she doesn't quite remember the way they feel, even as she stares out of the window noting the narrow buildings, the people on the streets, she already feels out of her element. This is her home, her city, but she couldn't name one street, one park, one landmark.

"This is us," Jane murmurs.

Maura blinks, observing the street. It has a quaint feel to it. Aside from two children playing tag in the front garden of one of the houses, it is quiet, and this is reassuring somehow. There is no world in which she could deal with loud.

Jane pulls into the driveway of what she is left to assume is their house. It's bigger than she had imagined – too big for just the two of them. The grey stone of it feels welcoming, though, and as she follows Jane to the door she runs her fingers across the dark brown wood of the porch. _This is your house,_ she tells herself. She wants so desperately for some feeling to flow forward, for some attachment. There is nothing, and then Jane ushers her inside, a hand on the small of her back while the other busies itself with her suitcase.

"We've only lived here a couple months," Jane explains as Maura steps into the foyer, staring around her, eyes wide. "My ma has our old house now."

"Your mother," Maura muses, heading through the house, fingers trailing over everything. She is determined to learn the feel of every surface, to memorise every colour, to know the space which she inhabits. "We're close?"

Jane rests against a kitchen counter – black, marble, clean – as Maura studies the wide, open space of the kitchen that leads through with an archway to the dining room.

"She thinks of you as her daughter."

Maura stops at that. She doesn't know why the thought almost brings tears to her eyes.

Jane pushes off of the counter, placing a hand against Maura's back again. Her voice is quiet and warm when she speaks next, mouth close to Maura's ear.

"C'mon. There's still loads for you to see."

After taking a moment to compose herself, she follows Jane into what looks like the living room. It's a mix of warm creams and chocolate browns, little tidbits of their life scattered through it. She stares at a hair clip on the coffee table and wonders whether it's hers or Jane's; frees her feet of her shoes and wiggles them against the wooly rug, wondering which of them bought it; discovers photo frames of the two of them and various people she doesn't remember. Before she can think, and with Jane still watching her carefully, Maura finds herself drawn to one particular frame. It is of herself and Jane. Her thumb brushes over her own face, studying the flush to her cheeks. In the background, it looks like almost a foot of snow has fallen; the sky is turning purple above them and they both seem far too underdressed for the weather. But they are comfortable with each other, clearly, and happy. Her own head is thrown back with laughter, hand gripping Jane's waist as the detective presses her own smile against her cheek, hands settled on her hips.

Maura finds herself blinking against the tears she feels welling in her eyes. She wants desperately to remember this moment – to know what it is she had been thinking, what had lead to this, what words had been shared between them in that moment. It is cruel and unfair to have the evidence of her life sitting in her hands with no memories to prove it's real.

"My ma took that one."

Jane's voice makes her jump, but the detective doesn't laugh, or smile, at her reaction. She comes closer until they're side by side and her fingers drift over the photograph.

"We still lived in the old house – Ma lived in the guest house – and when it started snowing, I told you all about the snowball fights me and brothers used to have. When you told me you'd never had one before, well… everyone should have at least _one_ snowball fight in their life, right?"

Jane smiles, but it is neither happy nor sad. Maura's hands itch at the sight. She forgets what to do with them, so she holds the frame a little tighter, the photograph suddenly precious to her now.

"You resisted. Tried to pull on at least three more layers, but I told you the best snowball fights are when you end up cold and desperate for a warm bath after. Your aim was surprisingly good. I thought I was totally gonna school you, but I was wrong. We'd just finished when Ma came outside to see what we were doing and took this."

Jane is quiet after, simply studying the photograph, eyes misty. It feels as though she is intruding on a moment that is not hers.

"We look happy."

Jane nods. "We were. Real happy."

Maura looks away guiltily.

Past tense.

* * *

The detective is far more softer in their house than she had been at the hospital. She's not quite sure whether she is grateful for it or not.

Jane leaves her to explore the rest of the house on her own. Maura slips through the French doors that lead to the garden and spends at least ten minutes inspecting every flower, every decoration, even a glass left on the outdoor table. She finds a small bathroom downstairs before heading up the stairs, noting how light the place is, how much sunlight manages to filter in and make the house even brighter than it had felt when she'd first stepped in. The first room she finds feels like a guest room. It is functional but relatively plain and she loses interest quickly, crossing the hallway to find what seems like study.

At first she thinks it might be Jane's, but after studying the artwork that hangs up, the organization – every pencil has its place, every file in its place… yes, this is hers, she knows it. Her hands drift against the white walls as she peers out of the window. It overlooks the garden, she can even peer into the gardens of their neighbors. Perhaps that way she'll learn about them.

Maura takes a seat at the desk, looking around the room. This – here – is hers. Not shared with Jane. Just hers.

She leans back in the chair, eyes drifting over the pictures of herself and Jane sitting framed on the desk. She and Jane both in dresses, smiling for the camera; she and Jane by a Christmas tree, decorating; she and Jane at the beach, Jane grumpy as Maura laughs. It is all right there, the evidence that she had loved this woman, been loved in return. The evidence sits on her finger too, a silver band that she worries with her thumb, twirling it around again and again, stuck on loop.

She reaches out and collects the frames, tucks the photographs away in the top drawer, out of sight.

"Maura?"

She jumps, swivelling to find Jane standing in the doorway, watching her anxiously.

"You remember anything?"

Maura stands, looking anywhere but at the detective.

"I don't. I'm sorry."

"That's okay," Jane says, but when Maura looks up the woman's eyes are closed, her hands rubbing across them. "Uh, I'm gonna take the guest room. All your things are still uh…. in ours."

Maura crosses the room and Jane backs away, pointing her to the room at the end of the hall, on the right.

"What's this one?" She asks curiously, pushing open the door to the left.

The room is empty. As the door drifts open, she tilts her head at the sight of the pastel lilac walls, the cream carpet. It doesn't quite fit with everything else.

"It's uh – "

She glances at Jane, who has pressed her lips together. When she moves to ask more, Jane shakes her head, nudging Maura out of the way so that she can shut the door, her hand white-knuckled as she grips the handle.

"It's nothing," Jane murmurs, nodding to the door opposite. "That's our room. I'll uh… I'll be downstairs."

Curious, Maura watches the detective head down the hall and back down the stairs again. The detective's patience is beginning to wear thin already. She can tell. As she crosses into their bedroom, she prays for a memory, anything that can appease this woman just so that she'll stop watching Maura like a hawk, waiting for her to return to the woman she used to be.

The bedroom isn't what she expects. The floors are a dark chocolate wood, the walls a deep violet colour. She pauses, eyes scanning. The covers are still rumpled and folded back, a mug of coffee on one of the bedside cabinets. Jane must be a little messy. She finds herself drawn to the room anyway, studying the dozen signed baseballs sat on one shelf, curious about the medical journals she finds on another. There's Red Sox – a baseball team? – memorabilia dumped on on an armchair by the window: a jersey too small to be hers, a foam finger that makes her laugh.

There's a post it note stuck to one of the bedside cabinets and she pulls it off carefully, fingers shaking. _Called into work. Meet you for lunch. I love you._

She wrote this.

Maura slumps down onto the bed, staring at the post it. She aches for it. The memory of writing it: the feel of the pen in her hands, Jane still asleep as she wrote it, the sun rising outside. The assumption that her love for her wife was as an steady, unshakable thing as her knowledge of herself.

When the sob finally rushes up her throat and comes spilling out, she doesn't stop the rest.

* * *

 **TBC**


End file.
